De Pluie
by LesMisLoony
Summary: One rainstorm and its effect on the four chief members of the Patron Minette. Insanely short little chapters. Why does this story have 130 hits and 4 reviews?
1. Montparnasse

There was too much feeling. Only she saw, felt, how the pain and guilt and love, suppressed inside, had diluted itself and permeated his unfeeling skin-shell. He continued as always until the dust cloud of emotion was too dense, stinging his eyes with tears and choking him when he opened his mouth. And when this happened, he went looking for her.

She lay trapped between his warm, hot feeling, drops of desperation gathering on his pale forehead, and the frozen hard ground. Her fingernails dug into the unrelenting soil, cries of pain dying on her parted lips. She felt herself drowning in the sea of his anger, pain, sorrow, regret, pity—love.

The murky cloud was leaving him.

Thunder cracked the black sky as he moved away, his heart pounding burning relief through his body. She was still, quiet, eyes tightened against his discarded passions. Content that she would remain silent, he turned his own black eyes, still clouded with one feeling, to the star-pricked void above him. A dark haze, at length, dulled the points of light into blackness, and the rustle of rain disguised her ragged breaths. A drop soothed his burning brow with its soft chill. The rain mixed with his sweat, washing the salty fire away. His upturned face was pelted with the cool raindrops, splashing light across his white cheeks, his lashes glittering. His lips parted; he let his soul drown. An empty shell, an empty body, chest expanding with release. He spread his arms and his fine clothes were cleansed with the rest, heavy fabrics plastered to his skin, his shell.

And again he was empty, at last, emptier than ever before, only a vague satisfaction playing across his peaceful pace, as empty eyes blinked into empty heavens.

The rain stopped.


	2. Gueulemer

The air around him was turning colder. He smelled the storm before he heard the first long, slow growl of thunder. He heaved himself to his feet and moved to the high, barred window. Standing in the center of the cell, he could see the troubled sky. He waited.

The sky was cushioned by soft gray clouds, which seemed to sink lower as he watched. Suddenly one flashed golden, and minutes later another answered. Thunder responded with another distant groan.

The rain was slow at first, but at last it became a constant rattle against the bars, pouring down thicker than the sky.

And then the beautiful cracks opened in the heavens, illuminating the darkening cell with an ethereal blue light that vanished before he could remember it. He raised one hand, as though he would touch the lightning, but let it fall to his side again.

Another flash, this one strong enough to light him brilliantly white, and he held his breath for the canonfire that would follow. None came—only a low grumble from all around, but he sensed it growing stronger. He knew that soon thunder would rattle the bars and lightning would steal his breath away, all tempered by the steady whispering clatter of constant rain. It would be a good storm.

When the door behind him opened, both his hands were raised toward the gray sky. The soldiers led him away, the tips of their bayonets glinting in the half-light.

They were outside when the full ecstasy of the storm seized him. A few swings of his powerful arms and they slid in the rain, throwing their hands forward to catch themselves, prisoner forgotten for the brief moment he needed. He began to run, his head thrown back and arms flung wide, drinking the storm, embracing it.

Another explosion, thunder and lightning at once, in his back, and he fell, splashing into a puddle, rain pounding at his body.

The soldier, grim-faced, lowered his gun.


	3. Claquesous

It was still daylight when the storm woke him, the musty scent of spring rains creeping through the moulding cracks in the crumbling walls of his garret apartment. The smell smothered him, filling his lungs with its gray cotton thickness. He choked on it, took a pinch of snuff, lit a candle—the warm, wet air retreated, hovering in the corners until the snuff wore off, until the candle fizzled and died.

When he heard the thunder approaching, he thought wildly to cover the windows and rushed to the faint light from the corner. There was no window in the garret; the light emanated from a jagged hole in the rotted roof.

It could get in.

Panic gripped at his throat, clogging his lungs. He tore the cloak from his shoulders and stuffed it into the hole, suffocating the dim light, crushing it into blackness. He strained his eyes against the room, but not even murky shadows separated themselves from the darkness. He smiled.

Now the thunder was closer, and he held his breath, waiting for the inevitable loathsome light to come, sizzling, burning, fire in his limbs, lungs—face. He remembered the taste of metal, the smell of scorched flesh, and the feel of something dripping over his cheeks,

It was then that the rain, soaking his cloak, had made it too weighty for the sagging roof; it fell, drenched, heavy, trapping him as would a net. Frantic, he clawed it away from his face, hurling it into the corner.

The rain poured through the hole, and he flattened himself against the wall as the growing puddle inched toward him.

Lightning split the sky, and for a brief instant he saw his own screaming face reflected in the small window. Burnt, melted, reddish chunks of skull, muscle, exposed. Rivulets of melted skin had dried upon his forehead as though he were a half-used candle, drips of wax cooled mid-descent.

The light had faded instantly, but the face would never be gone. He pulled the cloak over his head and waited for the storm to end.


	4. Babet

The last of the storm dripped from the brim of his hat. The memory of it hung thick in the air, diffusing the vague streetlights and smearing the angles of the windows. The fog was heavy on his chest and warm in his lungs. Buildings loomed eerily in the mist; dripping water echoed his sharp footsteps in the silence.

Even as he was marveling at the emptiness of the city around him, another set of footsteps surfaced in the fog. They were cat-soft, accompanied by a girl's bell-like laugh. The gamine brushed past him and slid into the mist with hardly a ripple.

He stopped for the briefest moment, then broke into a run, calling after the child. He was certain that he knew those eyes, the shape of her mouth, the tones of her voice. The mist swirled about him, wrapping catlike around his legs and brushing itself against his cheeks. Each time he called the girl's name his sharp voice was cushioned and smothered in the velvety haze.

The street ended in a short wall, but asteep ramp dipped into the fog, now as thick and solid as goose down. He descended without a thought, and the fog obediently diluted itself to permit his entrance.

The mist presented him with the grate, and he inched forward, sudden dread flushing his veins with ice. His chest was heavy with apprehension, each inhale becoming a struggle. He looked into the grate.

White fingers were curled around the bars, their owner's face caught forever in hopelessness. He knew the woman. For years he had kissed those cheeks as did the rats that now swarmed over her body. He had often pressed those icy fingers to his lips.

At her side was the child, gaunt and pale like her mother. As he gazed at her, those youthful eyes opened, and the girl smiled and reached out to him.

He seized the grate and shook it, but it was locked. He did not have the key.

The child's smile slowly faded.


End file.
